Sunsets And Satin
by BurningTheMidnightOil-96
Summary: This is a prequel to Submit To Fifty Shades and focuses on Ana's life before Christian, from the age of sixteen up to the night she met our favourite Dom. You will see the abuse she suffers at the hand of her stepfather and alcoholic mother, how she was first introduced to BDSM and her life as a Sub, pre-Christian. You do not have to read STFS to understand this story.


**A/N: Hello again, everyone! So, in case you're wondering what this is about, allow me to explain. Submit To Fifty Shades is a story based on the idea that Anastasia is already a Sub and just as unstable as Christian, with her own shades that haunt her nightmares. However, I feel that little time has been spent on the hows and whys of Ana's life and how she came to be the way she is. Naturally, you will find out more about Ana's past during the story but you can never fully understand a character until you spend time covering their past and their minds in detail.**

**Anyway, I'm rambling. Sunsets And Satin is a spin-off from Submit To Fifty Shades that revolves completely around Anastasia's life before she met Christian, starting from when she was a teenager up until she meets our favourite Dom at Elena's house. You will see the abuse she suffered at the hands of her alcoholic mother and cruel stepfather, her first encounter with BDSM and how she became a Sub, up until her meeting with Elena and her latest Dom.**

**I will continue to write Submit To Fifty Shades and will update both STFS and Sunsets And Satin as regularly as possible. Please read and review, and PM me if you have any comments or queries. :)**

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_I cannot remember the last kind word that was spoken to me. Nor, the last time I felt a loving embrace, that comforts in times of despair._

Perhaps, when I was a young child; barely four years old. My father would hold me close whenever I was frightened by the monsters under my bed... Or maybe, it was when my mother held my hand at his funeral - promising me that we would be alright. Just her and I... Another promise she was destined to break.

My life is a gray existence, - mundane and predictable - with little purpose. I get the grades I need at school to keep HIM off of my back and to avoid attention. I have learned how to keep my mouth shut and head down whenever my beloved stepfather comes home wasted, looking for a fight. I have learned to take punishments in silence whenever I fuck up - which seems to be more often than not. But, most importantly, I have learned to NEVER draw attention to the bruises and the pain punishment causes me. It does no good to have people sniffing around, as there is nothing they can do to change the situation my darling mother has placed us in.

I often regret the fact that I still have air in my lungs and a pulse in my veins. I can imagine that death would be so much easier than the life I am being forced to live.

I know what you must be thinking: no sixteen year old should be thinking this way. They should be enjoying the opportunities God has blessed them with, and reaping the rewards that youth brings... But, when you have lived a life like myself, you, too, would follow the same thought process as I. Death is easy; peaceful; devoid of all the pain that others bring onto you.

Life is so much harder, and I wonder if it's really worth the battle.

I wish I had someone to talk to about all of this. Writing in a diary seems all too impersonal... But, who would listen? Who would care? I am just one girl; a weirdo who has no friends and keeps to herself, a book her only companion.

I'm used to it; but still, it would be nice. Someone there to listen and offer advice... A shoulder to cry on when things got to be too much... An escape where I didn't need to think about what lay in wait at home..

But, I only have you, dear diary. And that, I think, is the most depressing notion I've heard all day.

I signed my name at the bottom and closed the book with a sigh; another day of whining, over.

I hated using that diary; it never really did me any good. I had seen on this self-help website, that writing down your thoughts was a good way to relax and clear your mind. Bullshit. All it did was give you a chance to re-read how fucked up your mind was, in case you ever happen to forget. But I still continued to write everything down, hoping that one day, it would quell the beast in my mind. If nothing else, it would make good reading to whomever found the thing after I was gone.

After slipping the book back into its hiding place - a loose floorboard under my bed - I stood and stretched; the bones in my arms and back cracking as I did so. I had been sitting still for far too long, and I needed something productive to do. I checked my watch and saw that I had at least another hour before my mother and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named got in from whatever bar they were getting pissed at tonight. I pretty much had the house to myself. I wished I could enjoy the freedom, but I didn't have the time. I needed to have all the washing done and the plates cleaned before they got in, or there would be hell to pay.

I padded down the stairs and into the kitchen. My eyes soon fell on the massive pile of cutlery, bowls, and plates I had been left to deal with. Damn them! Why should they get to do whatever they wanted, while I was being forced to stay at home and act like a 1950's housewife? Explain the justice to me in that? I let out a loud groan and then set to work - muttering curse words under my breath all the while.

I hated acting like their slave... Well, more Tony's slave than my mother's. I just ignored her as a general rule. She would normally be too drunk to even remember that she had a daughter, so she wouldn't really be coherent enough to order me around. He was, though. And he was a mean drunk. Truth be told, he scared the shit out of me; to the point where I couldn't even raise my eyes from the floor when I was in the same room as him. It was as if just looking at him the wrong way was enough to set him off.

I rolled my shoulders in an attempt to fend off the ache that started to grow in my muscles, from bending over the sink so long. Stupid washing up! I wanted to give it a rest for a few minutes and give my body a chance to relax, but I knew that wouldn't be a wise decision. I wouldn't be finished in time, and then there would be hell to pay. So, I ploughed on, and ignored the ever-growing pain that nestled itself in between my shoulder blades.

I was done just in time. I had just finished loading the washing machine, when I heard the front door open, followed by the stumbling of footsteps. I sighed and rolled my eyes; I could already tell they were hammered.

"Where is she?" I heard a male voice slur, and I cringed as I recognised it as one of Tony's friends. He always had those booze-hounds over, and then expected me to clean up after them. Typical.

"I dunno... A-Annie!" I glared in their direction when the "step-loser" used my nickname; the one my real father had used for me when I was small. But, what had once been used as a term of endearment, now, chilled my blood, and caused my muscles to twitch in fear... or loathing. I could never be sure which of the two it was.

"Oi, Annie! Where are ya, Bitch!?" oh great, now he was mad. This was going to be fun.

I figured I had to answer him. "In the kitchen," I replied flatly, my voice almost dead of all emotion.

"Well, get your ass out here, NOW!" he shouted the last word, and I cringed again. I didn't want to go out there and face them; but really, what choice did I have? If I didn't go out there, he'd come in here and drag me out by my hair.

I slowly walked into the living room and found Tony sprawled on the sofa - legs kicked out in front of him and arms draped over the back of the couch. He wore a black wife-beater (seemingly appropriate attire) that clung to his fat beer belly and washed out jeans that were ripped at the hem and across the left knee; the button of his jeans were undone.

He turned his gaze towards me when I entered the room. I saw his piggy, mud-brown eyes travel all the way up my body - pausing a few moments too long on certain areas. I felt dirty whenever he looked at me like that, which, recently, was more often than not. I couldn't meet his eyes when he eventually reached my face, and I deliberately looked at the wall behind his right shoulder.

Beside him sat his best friend, - and total dickhead - Mark Williams: part time mechanic and full time creep, as far as I was concerned. Unlike Tony, Mark wasn't fat; instead, he was packed full of muscle. Steriods, in my opinion - it would explain his sudden rages. He had hair as black as onyx, and eyes were as cold as winter ice. He was pale, and his face seemed to be set in a permanent sneer, that just made him look ugly as all hell. He was dressed like Tony; only difference was, his wife-beater was white, instead of black.

"You took your fucking time," Tony barked; his voice was angry and impatient. "I shouldn't have to call you twice!"

I dropped my gaze to the floor. "I'm sorry," I apologized.

"You fucking well will be, if you don't get your act together. Don't make me repeat myself again, understand?" He demanded. I nodded quickly. "Good. Now, go get me and Mark a beer."

I turned obediently and hurried into the kitchen, not able to move quickly enough. Something had already pissed Tony off, and the last thing I wanted to do was worsen his attitude.

I yanked open the fridge door, grabbed two chilled bottles, and practically ran back to the living room. Neither of the men had moved in the time I had been away.

I handed over the bottles and stepped back, allowing my eyes to look anywhere but at them.

That was when I realised my mother wasn't anywhere to be seen. I frowned.

"Where's mom?" I asked without thinking, and immediately froze. I wasn't supposed to ask questions; he didn't like them. I was meant to just do as I was told, and leave it at that. But, to my shock, he laughed, and my eyes darted to his face for the first time.

"That whore is out earning me a bit of cash. Never hurts to have a bit on the side for a rainy day, eh, Mark?" Tony grinned at his mate.

"True dat," Mark answered him, around a swig of beer. "How you get her to agree to sell anyway?" He continued. Sell? I thought to myself, as I watched their exchange. What the hell does he mean by that?

Tony raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, agree? There was no debate involved, mate. I tell her, she does it. Simple as that. That skank doesn't get a choice in the matter."

Mark shrugged. "Fair enough. Don' it bother you, though? It'd fucking bother me if I found out my woman was lying on her back for other men; I'd beat the shit out of her for it."

"Nah, I couldn't care less," Tony replied. He raised his bottle, taking another swig. "She's always enjoyed spreading her legs for strangers anyway; how do you think I landed her? I may as well make a bit of money out of it," He smirked to himself. "Besides, she doesn't get on her back; she gets on all fours like the dog she is."

That was when I realised. He'd pimped out my mother! He was making her sell her body to the first guy who blinked at her, and he was taking all the money for himself. Just when you think someone can't sink any lower! That disgusting, vile, no good piece of shit!

"Excuse me?" I jumped at Tony's voice, and made the mistake of looking directly at him. His eyes had narrowed into slits and his face was turning purple with rage. "What," he hissed, "did you just call me?"

Oh, shit! My mouth dropped open when I realised I had just voiced my thoughts aloud.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

"N-Nothing!" I stuttered, the blood draining from my face.

"Oh, I think you said something," He said while slowly getting to his feet, his voice dangerously low. "I heard you."

"N-No!"

He slammed his bottle down on the coffee table before he began stalking towards me, his eyes dark with an unpleasant purpose. I tried to back up - to get away from him - but my back hit a wall. He had me cornered and I could see no way to get out of this one. FUCK!

"Do you want to repeat what you just said, Annie?" Tony asked softly, his voice dripping with malice.

I shook my head frantically. "No!"

He slammed his hand against the wall beside my head, and a small shriek escaped my lips as I jumped with fright.

"No, what?" he snarled.

"No, Sir."

He chuckled darkly, and for a second, I thought I was clear of danger. That he had only been trying to scare me. That he wouldn't beat me in front of Mark, who'd only witnessed Tony slap my mom around. I mean, there's a big difference between hitting a grown woman, and beating a defenseless minor... right?

Apparently not.

Tony grabbed a fistful of my hair and launched me to the ground, face first. I threw my arms out to protect my head, and landed heavily on my arm, causing me to cry out in pain. But he wasn't done with me yet. It began to rain fists, as blow after blow bounced off of my body. He was hitting every piece of flesh he could find, determined to make me bleed. I tried to curl in on myself - to protect my vulnerable ribs and stomach, still tender from my last beating three days ago - but he was having none of it. He bent down and grabbed my ankles, dragging me away from the wall and into the middle of the living room floor. I kicked and screamed, trying to get his filthy hands off of me; but, I was too weak in comparison to him.

He straddled my waist - effectively pinning me to the floor - before continuing to assault me; his fists often making contact with my face and chest.

I fought back - scratching at his face and trying to throw him off my body - but nothing seemed to affect him. It never did.

"Never. Talk. About. Me. Like. That. Again!" he bellowed, punctuating each word with a punch.

The air was being forced out of my body as his weight crushed my body beneath. His blows were causing black spots to form over my vision, blinding me. I could feel the tears pouring from my eyes, mixing with the blood he had drawn from his punishment.

_Give up,_ a voice murmured inside my mind, its tone soft and persuasive. _Stop fighting back, Anastasia. You know you deserve this. You caused this by getting mouthy with him. Stop crying and accept that you did wrong. It'll be over faster that way. _

That little voice was right. My tears and feeble attempt at defending myself was only egging him on. He wouldn't stop until he had broken me - until I admitted that I had caused this fuck up. I should monitor what comes out of mouth; it'd save me the time and the bruises.

So, I went limp and took whatever he wanted to dish out.

I forced my tears back inside myself, and clenched my teeth to stop the screams from passing my lips. And, without that, he soon quickly grew bored, as I refused to give him what he wanted most: My pleas.

To give up and accept my fate, was truly, the only defense I had left.

It was a game to him. And if he didn't get a prize, what the fuck was the point in playing?

He grabbed my chin and forced me to looking at him. He was so close that I could smell his rancid breath on my face. _Shit, that stench is gunna take a while to get out of my nose!_

"You will never talk to me like that again, you stupid little cunt," He growled at me; his furious gaze holding my terrified one. Like a bird caught in the eyes of a snake. "Not if you value your life, anyway," he continued, "I've gone easy on you tonight; but, I promise you, if you ever disrespect me like that again... I will end you. Got that?"

"Yes, Sir," I replied, unable to raise my voice above a whisper.

"Good." He let me go and stood up, flexing his hands as he went. He glanced back down at me, his face contorted with disgust. "You're pathetic, you know that? You make me sick." Then, he spat on me, looking at me as if I were something he'd found on the bottom of his shoe.

I watched and listened as he clomped out of the room before I rolled onto my side, wincing as I did. I brought my knees up to my chest as I released the tears I had been holding inside. They came out thick and heavy, scorching my swollen face as they slipped down my cheeks. I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood to prevent a sob from ripping its way from my chest.

I had only one thought in mind as I lay there - the broken girl who had been dealt a shitty hand and had no one to look after her:

_Happy Birthday, Anastasia._

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**I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and this insight into Ana's life. This is effectively a prequel to Submit To Fifty Shades so, even though there is no Christian action, I hope this still tempts readers :P **

**I want to also thank my new Beta, Breanna3593, for her help and work with the chapter :)**

**Read And Review!**


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